Calm Before the Storm
by bubblysuds19
Summary: During a mission that went awry, Clint and Natasha found themselves over-stepping physical, emotional and professional boundaries. Now they must deal with the aftermath of their actions. Sequel to Catch-22. Pre-Avengers. Contains scenes from Iron Man 2 and Thor. Clintasha/Blackhawk
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters._

Aaaaaand I'm back! It's been a while guys but I'm back! As already stated in the summary, this is the sequel to my story, Catch-22, and follows the aftermath of the happenings of their mission in Istanbul. I tried to stick to the official MCU timeline as much as I could so this story will include snippets of both Natasha's adventures in Iron Man 2 and Clint's in Thor. This story will also end up bleeding into the Abidjan Operation that was hinted at during the movie, if you guys remember it.

* * *

_SHIELD Headquarters, New York_

* * *

Natasha braced her hand against Clint's chest as they prepared to walk out of the Quinjet. "Watch it," she warned as they stepped off the ramp together. She had snaked her arm around him to provide some support as they waited for the door to lift open.

"Nat, I'm fine," he mumbled, rolling his eyes at her. He had to admit, it wasn't like her to show such overbearing concern following a mission. However, the mission they had just returned from wasn't like any mission before.

Things had changed between them.

"Backing off then..." She raised her hands in defeat, removing them from his back and chest, and started to step away.

Clint winced at the loss of support, the loss of her hands on him, the loss of her warmth surrounding him. "Wait, don't go—" he blurted out abruptly, eyes wide as she walked away, "—too far."

She shook her head in amusement and fought the urge to roll her eyes. She stepped back towards him again and grasped one of his hands, leading the way out of the hangar and into the SHIELD building.

They had undergone a mission from hell; a mission to assassinate one of Turkey's infamous terrorists-the elusive and thoroughly psychotic Emre Bowen. After enduring a nail-biting interrogation, a chase through the streets of Istanbul, and a serious bullet wound, they found themselves lip-locked while in their safe house.

Clint, never the guy to come away from a mission unscathed, fell into a coma whilst recuperating in the Prague infirmary base. Days later, he woke and the two assassins found themselves over-stepping professional boundaries once again. However, neither of them got the chance to bring up or discuss what that kiss would mean for them and for their partnership.

That would come later.

* * *

Silence encircled the two agents as they sat in their usual seats in SHIELD debriefing room.

"So...you wanna talk about it?" Clint's voice penetrated the silence and echoed against the cold walls that seemed to be enclosing their battered bodies and psyches. He had sat gingerly in his chair and managed to raise one foot on an vacant chair to his right. Cracked ribs, countless bruises and the still-aching bullet wound weakened his already exhausted body and he knew he had a few weeks of recovery ahead of him.

He had rested his head back, allowing it to fall over the back of the chair, and kept his eyes closed as he asked his question.

"About what?" Natasha answered with a sceptical look, one eyebrow arching slightly. She was seated across from him, absently examining and picking at her nails.

"Lollipops and candy canes.." he responded, his tone flat with sarcasm. Natasha narrowed her eyes and gave him her trademark "I don't have time for this, Barton" look.

Exasperated, Clint slowly shifted his leg off the chair and sat forward in his seat. "Nat, c'mon we haven't talked about what happened in Istanbul."

Natasha raised her head a little more when she saw him straighten up. "That's what debriefing is for."

"You think I'm talking about Bowen?" he asked incredulously, eyes narrowing as he watched her carefully. Just on cue, Coulson opened the door to enter the room, appearing with two files in one hand, a mug of coffee in the other.

Natasha glared at her partner and pressed her lips together tightly before she spoke. "Now's not the time for this, Clint.." she muttered, no more than a whisper under her breath.

Clint retracted as if he had been burned and folded his arms across his chest, obviously annoyed at her guarded countenance. Coulson set the two files down on the desk and kept his eyes firmly on the two agents, examining every hint their body language had failed to restrain. He indulged in a long sip from his mug, still scrutinising every twitch and glare. It seemed like nothing had changed since they had left New York.

But, in reality, everything had.

* * *

Clint bustled into the room, ignoring the resounding bang the door made behind him. "Nat, we need to talk about what happened in that safe house." Natasha kept her back to Clint, her hands resting on her hips, her head lowered enough so that her chin touched her chest.

"When are you going to face up to it?" he asked, clearly aggravated when he didn't get a response.

"Face up to what, Clint?" she snapped suddenly, breaking her lengthy silence. She whipped around, facing him head on, and straightened her shoulders in defiance. "Face up to the fact that you kissed me while you were _dying _in that safe house? Face up to the fact that I thought I lost you on that flight to Prague, knowing that you would never know how much I felt about you?...knowing that I would never get to tell you.."

"Nat—" Clint started, lowering his head to process her rambled words.

"You have no idea how hard it's been for me, Clint."

Anger flared in Clint's eyes and he raised his head and snapped angrily, "How hard it's been for you?"

Natasha kept her steely glare on him, clenching her jaw in anticipation.

Disbelief flooded his tone as he continued, "Do you think for a second it was easy on me? Being ignored by you for the three months after Madrid? Not having you around when I needed you the most? We always had each other's backs, Natasha, but that all ended when_ you_ started acting up."

Natasha stiffened, eyes unblinking. She didn't realise how selfish she'd been, how hard it was for him after Madrid. He needed her and she did everything in her power to drive up walls and boundaries in order to separate them. It was the only way she believed she could rid herself of her attraction to him.

"I thought I had lost you when I watched Bowen's men take you away in that alleyway—" he paused and wiped the back of his hand over his sweat tinged forehead. "The feeling I got when I saw you in that warehouse...tied up and beat to hell—" he paused again and swallowed, willing the image of Natasha's weakened form to dissipate from his memory. "And then to have you almost ripped away from me again when Bowen—" he hesitated once more, averting his eyes away from her as he thought about the Turk's assault.

"I just—I don't think I'll be able to go through that again, Nat. I'm not strong enough."

Silence surrounded them once more with only heavy breathing accompanying their aimless thoughts.

"Clint, I'm sorry.." she finally whispered softly, chastised by his confession.

"I don't want apologies, Nat. I want you to be honest with me; with yourself." His piercing gaze lanced through her, making her heart jolt painfully. Her eyelids shuddered as she willed herself to say something, anything. Clint kept his glare on her and nodded sharply after a moment, accepting her silence as his answer. He shook his head in submission, deciding enough was enough. "Listen, just...it's over now, okay? We got through the mission, we're alive...let's just leave it."

He scrubbed a hand down his bruised face, drawing his weary eyes to the floor. He turned and stopped at the door, curling one hand around the handle. He was giving up. He was tired, shattered, drained-physically, emotionally, mentally. He was tired of the playing around, the agonising tension between them, the fruitless hope and the crushing let downs.

"Clint, don't leave..please.." she pleaded faintly to his back, trapping her bottom lip between her teeth and biting hard. Clint let out a long breath and waited.

For what, he had no idea.

When Natasha realised he was staying put for the moment, she swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat and blinked the creeping wetness from her eyes. "This is exactly what I was afraid of, Clint! Letting my emotions cloud my judgement. I was afraid that all of 'this'—" she gestured towards him uselessly, "—would get in the way of our job, get in the way of everything we had built!" She paused and inhaled sharply, "Everything we built since you saved me...saved me from self-destructing all those years ago. I'm afraid of losing that."

Memories of the night he risked everything to save her flooded her mind. He had made a different call, one she may not have made herself if roles had been reversed.

"Nat, the only thing that's going to get in the way of everything we have is your refusal to acknowledge what's really going on." He turned around and pressed his back against the door. He leaned his head back slightly but kept his eyes on her. "Where is the _Natasha_ I saw in that safe house in Istanbul? The _assassin_ that took out Bowen with a swift flick of her wrist? My _partner_ who soaked herself in my own blood so that I would hold on a little bit longer?"

Clint's words caused something inside her to snap. Thoughts that had darted aimlessly through her mind stopped. A fire ignited somewhere in her that refused to be quelled or quenched by fearful thoughts, debilitating insecurities or crippling anxieties about the future. She had been conditioned to conceal feelings of love, to lock away weaknesses, to hide natural human instinct. _"Love is for children." _They would repeat it until it was believed, until it had been set in stone in their far too young minds.

Clint Barton had exposed her like an open wound. He would always see her for what she was. Not the infamous seductress with the killer thighs, not the terrified girl with sweat-inducing nightmares, not the Russian assassin with the dripping ledger. He saw her as someone who was trying to be better, someone who had longed to be free of the shackles of her past. Her saw her as someone who was willing to fight for herself because she knew that no one else would. He had made her see that he was just as damaged as her, that he was willing to fight for her, and that she didn't have to be alone any more. He was here.

He was the reason the venom in that wound had been sucked out. He is the reason she is the person she is today.

Without another thought, Natasha stepped forward, yanking his collar, and pressed her aching lips to his.

"Here," she whispered breathlessly against his lips. "She's here."

* * *

End of Chapter 1

Whoa! That took a lot out of me...hope you enjoyed that little opener!

More soon!


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters._

Thanks so much for all your reviews, favourites and follows! I'm glad you're all enjoying it!

* * *

Clint flinched slightly with surprise when Natasha claimed his lips with blistering urgency. The kiss was desperate, voracious, intoxicating. When his mind caught up with what was happening, all the tension that had accumulated in his body during their argument dissipated. He moved his hands, snaking them round her back, and pressed her against him, crushing their bodies together. His bounding pulse filtered into his consciousness, pumping hard in his ears.

Natasha smoothed her hands across his chest, feeling the heat of his flesh radiating from underneath his clothing. His arms enveloped her, holding her securely against his body. She began lightly pushing him back towards the door, their lips still crushing together in time, and stopped once she felt his body press against the solid frame.

The kiss deepened with raucous ferocity causing gasps to escape their aching lips, filling the air as they both fought for dominance. Clint settled his grip in her blazing curls and Natasha moved her hands towards his lower abdomen, letting them rest just above the waist band of his jeans. An involuntary hiss escaped his lips when she accidentally brushed against his still-healing bullet wound. Her eyes snapped open upon hearing his groan and she began to back away.

"No, no, don't stop.." Clint pleaded breathily, feeling her pull away from his lips. He ignored his body's protest and moved forward to recapture her lips again.

Natasha kept her distance, placing a hand flat on his chest to separate them. She swallowed, trying to catch her breath. "Clint, you're not fully healed yet. I don't want to be the reason you end up in the infirmary again."

"Hold on, you beat me up every day and now you're suddenly worried about me?"

"I only beat you up when you deserve it."

"I deserved it in Kosovo, in Budapest, in _Moscow_?" He wiggled an eyebrow at the last one, knowing exactly what reaction he'd get from her.

"Moscow!? You were trying to kill me!" She scowled and pressed against his chest again, shoving him slightly in annoyance.

Clint gave her a cheeky smirk. "Hey, I made a different call, remember?"

She inched forward to kiss him once again, moving her lips inch by inch towards his jaw and down his neck. "Yeah, you did.." A sultry undertone invaded her voice as she continued her trail of kisses. She inhaled a deep breath and lastly placed a soft kiss against his Adam's apple.

Clint almost collapsed right there and then, feeling his knees go weak. "Nat, please—"

"No, Clint.." she scolded with a shake of her head.

Clint wrinkled his nose in response as she moved away. "You know, you can kill a man with all that teasing. Worse than torture, if you ask me."

"Really, Barton? And why do you still live to tell the tale then?" she asked with a smirk, moving over to the bed. She grabbed her duffel bag and began to unpack her things.

"Because I'm immune to your tactics, Widow," he teased, knowing full well that he was entranced by them and had, long ago, succumbed to them.

Natasha cocked her head and slowly began to make her way over to him again. "Is that so? Well, we'll have to change that, won't we?" she rasped seductively against his lips. Clint gulped audibly and then flashed a wide smile.

He had his spider back. His partner. His Natasha. It took everything in him to suppress the urge to lift her up in into his arms and recapture her lips once again. The only thing stopping him was the burning ache in his side that refused to ebb.

_Damn bullet wound._

"Once I'm fully fit, up to your standards anyway, we can get back to...y'know..." he grinned flirtatiously.

"That can be arranged," she responded with an equally flirtatious grin, one eyebrow arching suggestively. She turned around and studied the pile of clothes that had escaped her duffel. She considered tending to them first but ultimately decided her stomach was more in need of attention. She snatched her phone off the bed and pushed past him as she made her way out onto the corridor.

Clint followed and inched his head out of the room, looking around to see if there were any eavesdropping bystanders nearby. Satisfied that they were alone, he whispered harshly, "And for the record, you kissed me while we were in Prague!"

Natasha kept her back to him, flipping him the bird, as she continued her walk down the corridor. A faint smile ghosted Clint's face as he watched her saunter away, her hips swaying seductively.

_Keep it together, Clint._

He made his way out, letting Natasha's bedroom door slide close with an audible click.

* * *

"Romanoff, you're wanted in Fury's office," Coulson addressed Natasha as he walked past their table in the mess hall. Clint had just settled into his seat after returning from his mandatory post-mission medial assessment.

Natasha pulled her eyes away from her meal, raising her eyebrows curiously. "Just me?"

Clint narrowed his eyes at Coulson, wondering if he knew more than what he was letting on. He and Natasha were usually always called in to Fury's office together if there was a mission on the table.

Coulson stopped and turned, feeling Clint's cool glare on him. "Just Agent Romanoff," he addressed the two agents, ignoring Clint's stare. "An assignment for you." He inclined his head towards Natasha before continuing his trek out of the hall.

Natasha nodded at the older agent and swallowed another mouthful of pasta. She refocused on Clint's suspicious features. "You think they know something?"

"We've been careful. I don't see how they could have figured it out."

"There's not much that gets past Coulson, Clint. Or Fury for that matter."

They both knew it was just a matter of time before the Director would find out about them.

"Let's just hope that if Coulson did have his suspicions, he would keep it to himself. I would rather go through weeks of anti-interrogation training than be at Fury's mercy if he found out about us."

"Thanks, that makes me feel a whole lot better about our meeting this morning," she quipped sarcastically, sending him a cool glare.

"Ah, you'll be fine. Remember if he pounces, go for the eye. He's only got the one left." Clint winked childishly and settled his eyes on her food. He quickly averted his gaze when a wave of nausea tinged his stomach.

"I'll keep that in mind." She wiped a napkin over her mouth and rose from her seat. "You eating?"

"Nah, not up to it," he shrugged and sat back in his seat, unperturbed.

With alarm bells ringing, Natasha stopped and studied him carefully, suddenly noticing his colourless appearance. She immediately sat back down and gave him a concerned look. "What's up?"

"I'm fine."

"Clint."

"Okay..okay.." he rolled his eyes, giving in to her warning tone. He seriously thought she was going to pounce on him if he didn't tell her the truth. "Infection.."

Natasha let out the breath she had been holding and examined him with concerned eyes. "What did Briggs say?"

"Just that I've got an infection. No biggie."

Natasha closed her eyes, weary of his nonchalant demeanour. She knew he was as stubborn as a mule when it came to his own welfare. He had been like that since the day she met him and clearly there was no sign in sight that he was losing that innate quality.

"He has me on some pretty strong antibiotics so that's why I'm not really in the 'stuff my face with food' mood right now." He swallowed thickly, willing the nausea to dissipate, and offered her a weak smile.

"Try something later and see how you feel then," she advised and brushed her fingers lightly over his knuckles. "I'll be back soon."

"Catch you later," Clint nodded and watched her leave.

* * *

"Agent Romanoff," Fury addressed the red-head as she walked into his office. He was sitting on the edge of the desk, bracing his hands on the glass surface.

"Director." She nodded before sitting down in the chair beside him.

"An assignment for you," he continued, placing a folder in front of her._ "Avengers Initiative"_ was emblazoned across the front page.

She raised her head and drew confused eyes to his stony face, realising what this meeting was really about. "Sir, I don't understand, you said this was years away."

"Well that time has come, Agent. We need to get ready."

Natasha narrowed her eyes at that statement. There was always something Fury was holding back, always something hidden behind his sharp eye. He always knew more than he let on and was always withholding some sort of end game. Strictly need-to-know was clearly his motto.

"We need you to assess someone for the roster."

"Assess?" she asked, eyebrows rising slightly with intrigue. "Who's being considered?"

"Tony Stark," he revealed, tone calm and direct, his good eye unflinching.

"You gotta be kidding," she blurted out before she could stop herself.

* * *

End of Chapter 2

Hope you guys are liking it so far!

Update soon!


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters._

Thanks for all your reviews and alerts! I really appreciate them :)

Enjoy guys!

* * *

"When do you leave?" Clint asked, failing to hide the dejection in his voice. He was sitting on her bed, hands braced behind him.

"In the next hour," she revealed, huffing in annoyance as she gathered the last of her clothes together. Clint resisted the urge to pout at her words. Of course she had to go, just when things were starting between them.

"I have to go through a briefing with Coulson and undergo preparation for my alias."

"Undergo preparation?" Clint inquired, eyebrows knitted together with confusion. "What are you dyeing your hair again or something?"

"No, Clint." She rolled her eyes, unamused. "As Stark's assistant, I'll need a full background cover. They're expecting him to check the legitimacy of my story. The man can be quite thorough when he wants to be."

"So, what's the 'preparation' for?" he asked again, continuing his probing.

"I have an appointment with a photographer."

"A photographer? You posing as some sort of model?" he asked with half a laugh.

"Yes, actually."

Clint's face dropped at that.

Stark was the shark and she was the bait. They were using her to reel him in. He stood up from the bed and folded his arms across his chest. "And you're okay with this?"

"Of course not! You think I want my body paraded around just for Tony Stark to ogle over?"

Clint bit the inside of his cheek absently and frowned. The universe was so unfair. He had to stay on base while Stark got to pry over his partner.

This wasn't some lowly gang leader or some gullible corporate macho-man who she could just bat her eyelashes at and they'd come crawling. This was Tony Stark—a child prodigy, a notorious womanizer, one of the wealthiest men in the world, and the creator and owner of the ground-breaking Iron Man armour.

No, it didn't bother Clint at all.

"C'mon Clint, you should know better than anyone that this is just part of the job. I've done this a hundred times before, with you in tow might I remind you. It doesn't mean anything, you know that." She chose to ignore his blatant jealousy and take it as impulsive protectiveness instead. She had to admit, it was endearing in a way.

"Yeah, I know," he whispered faintly, letting his eyes to roam towards the floor. He realised she was right, it was just another job.

Natasha moved forward and looped her hands around his neck, clasping at the soft hair at the back of his head. Clint inched his head down to press their foreheads together.

"Hey, I'll be back in no time, okay?" she whispered and kissed him fully on the lips. Clint hummed in agreement, a low rumble deep in his chest. Before the kiss developed into anything more, Natasha's phone rang, interrupting their embrace.

"Romanoff."

_"Flight's ready."_ Coulson's voice came through the line.

"Yes, sir," she answered before hanging up the call. She picked up the handle of her suitcase and started to make her way to the door.

"Can I at least know your alias?" Clint asked just before she made her way out.

She paused and took in a breath, rehearsing it all perfectly. "Natalie Rushman...from legal." She gave the archer a nod and a wink before disappearing.

* * *

_3 weeks later_

* * *

"The infection seems to have cleared up." Dr Adam Briggs narrowed his eyes as he prodded the pink flesh just above Clint's left hip bone. "You finish that last round of antibiotics?" he asked, looking up and eyeing the archer with a careful look.

"Yep."

"Well all right then, everything seems to be fine. You're cleared for duty." The doctor stepped away and scribbled on Clint's chart. He picked up the agent's t-shirt and tossed it towards the archer.

Without looking, Clint caught the t-shirt and breathed a sigh of relief. "Finally."

"That bad, huh?" Briggs chuckled with a crooked smile.

"You have no idea. With Agent Romanoff and Coulson gone for the last few weeks, I've been going crazy being cooped up here," he responded, pulling the t-shirt over his head and smoothing it over his torso. "Thanks Doc," he added with an appreciative smile and jumped off the examination table. "I owe you one."

"No problem," Briggs responded with a smile, moving away as he pulled off the latex gloves. He deposited the gloves in the bin and then studied the agent once again. He threw a half-concerned, half-angered expression at the archer. "Barton, next time you come home with a bullet wound, please let _someone_ know you're not feeling the best _before_ you make it to my infirmary. Don't let me find you passing out, with a raging fever, on the floor of my examination room again. We clear?"

Clint couldn't stop the grin that lit up his face. Okay, so he'd felt hot and woozy after his meeting with Natasha. Who wouldn't after what went down with her?

"I came to you! Wasn't that enough? And, for the record, I did _not_ pass out."

Briggs shot Clint another heated glare. The kid had somehow slid off the table, boneless and jelly-legged before him, when he entered the room that morning. It was enough to brighten up his day, to say the least.

"Whatever you say, Barton. You're the expert here, right?"

Clint offered the doctor a condescending smile and salute before making his way out.

* * *

"Nat?" Clint croaked into the phone, blinking to try and clear the grogginess of sleep away.

_"Hey, I don't have a lot of time, but I just wanted to see how you were."_ She was in the middle of applying the last of her mascara to her eyelashes.

Her -if this was your last birthday party you were ever gonna have, how would you celebrate it?- chat with Tony had stirred some thoughts about a certain partner of hers and she couldn't resist calling him to hear his voice._  
_

"I'm good. No complaints here. How are you?"

_"I'm fine. Did you make it to medical?"_

"Yep, given the all clear. I'm back on duty again."

_"That's great. Maybe you could convince Fury to let you out here to lend a hand'?"_

"Yeah, I bet he'd take real easy to that suggestion. How is Stark these days anyway? He still dying?" Clint asked, cursing inwardly at how crude his last question sounded.

_"Clint.."_ Natasha warned, her voice low with a scolding tone. She tucked the phone underneath her chin and made her way over to her footwear.

Clint could just feel her heated glare. "What? He is, isn't he?"

Natasha paused for a moment before she spoke, letting out an exasperated breath, and settled each foot into her heels. _"Yeah, he is...but Fury's got his teams working on it."_

She had to admit, over the last few weeks she had seen another side to the egotistical, self-proclaimed billionaire. Albeit, he was still a pain in the ass-an almighty one at that-but she could see through the façade he worked tirelessly to maintain. She recognised the familiar self-destructing tendencies he displayed through her observations and in her assessment of his suitability for Fury's Avengers Initiative. The man was tail-spinning, parading around like he had a death wish, and was the closest thing to a man-child if she ever saw one. It pained her to admit it, but he reminded her of a little someone she once knew.

"That's good to hear." Clint coughed uncomfortably and shifted to a sitting position in the bed.

_"Is that concern in your voice, I hear? You worried about the guy, Clint?"_

"Hey, he might be a pompous jerk and all but I don't want the guy dead, Nat."

A smile lit up her face as she picked up her earrings and placed them into each earlobe. _"It's his birthday party tonight."_

"Oh yeah! How could I forget? Tony Stark's birthday parties somehow never seem to go under the radar. Let's hope it's not his last, eh?"

_"Let's,_" she responded, her voice a soft whisper.

"I assume you're going, right? What are you wearing?"

_"Why?"_ she inquired with an arching eyebrow, intrigued by his questions._  
_

"I don't know...I'm curious," he smiled sheepishly, even though he knew she couldn't see him.

He missed her. Over a month had passed and he ached to see his spider.

_"I'm wearing a dress,"_ she purred seductively as she grabbed her clutch bag that lay on the dressing table.

"A dress? Really? And here's me thinking you'd be wearing those dungarees you got in San Diego."

_"You're hilarious, Clint, really. But if you must know, I'm wearing a leopard print dress."_

"Leopard print? That's—"

_"Miss Rushman, your lift awaits."_

_"Oh, thank you."_ He heard her respond to the distant voice that trickled through the line. _"Clint, I gotta go."_

"Okay," he answered, trying his best to hide the disappointment that threatened to invade his tone. He heard rustling in the background. "Nat?"

_"Yeah?"_ Her voice filtered through the noise.

"Be careful."

_"Will do. Talk soon,_" she whispered her goodbye and hung up. Clint tossed the phone aside and sank back into his pillows, willing the ache in his chest to disappear.

* * *

End of Chapter 3


	4. Chapter 4

_Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters._

Thank you for all your lovely reviews!

Hope you enjoy this one :)

* * *

_SHIELD HQ, New York_

* * *

_"Barton?"_ Coulson's voice fed into Clint's earpiece as the archer nocked another arrow and prepared to release.

"Coulson!" Clint greeted cheekily. "How's babysitting duty with Stark going?" he laughed and released the arrow, burying it deep into the chest of the dummy at the end of the range. He pulled out another arrow from the quiver and nocked it fluidly, preparing to loosen.

_"Uneventful so far, but I've been reassigned and so have you."_

Clint lowered the bow and arrow and tilted his head to the left, anticipation bleeding into his veins. "A new assignment? Where?" He was like a dog that had set eyes on a slab of steak.

_"New Mexico."_

"New Mexico, huh?"

_"That's right, protection detail."_

Clint narrowed his eyes, intrigued. "Who needs protecting in New Mexico?"

_"It's not a who, it's more of a what."_

Clint's eyebrows furrowed in thought. "Enlighten me, please. I'm all ears," he remarked sarcastically.

_"A hammer. That's what needs protecting."_ Coulson's voice remained clear and direct, unwavering.

"Course it does," Clint responded with dead pan humour, shaking his head. Over a month off duty and this is what he gets handed? A hammer? He couldn't help but feel that his job was about to get a whole lot more complicated.

_"I'll brief you on everything once you get here. Wheels up in an hour."_

"Yes, sir," Clint answered as the comm clicked off. He replaced the bow in it's case and exited the range.

* * *

_SHIELD base, New Mexico desert_

* * *

"And you're okay?"

Clint had rang Natasha as soon as could following the news of the Stark Expo incident.

_"Yeah..I'm fine."_ She was currently in the bath, submerged by bubbles, letting her battered skin soak. She rubbed absently at her sore arms, stifling a groan as she accidentally brushed against the bruises.

Clint registered her subtle noise and his heart leapt in his chest. "You don't sound fine..."

_"Clint, it was nothing I couldn't handle, okay? Stop worrying."_

His frown turned into a faint smile when the image of his partner kicking ass at Hammer Industries flashed across his mind. He knew damn well it was nothing she couldn't handle.

_"How is New Mexico anyway? You figure out what the hell that thing is yet?"_

"Ha, no. Don't go holding your breath. The longer we're here, I think the less we know about that thing," Clint shook his head, vexed. He stood up and peered out of the window, taking in the darkness that had surrounded the base. "Food is awful. Sleeping quarters are cramped and down right unsanitary. Weather is pure balls. You know I was hoping for something a little less wet, maybe work on my tan."

Natasha giggled, imaging him waggling an eyebrow suggestively. She needed some light-hearted humour after the events she had endured.

"Coulson's been on edge these days though. I thought spending time with Tony Stark would loosen the guy up, but he's wound tighter than a drum. He needs to learn how to relax."

_"He's always been like that, Clint. Y__ou know how he is when he gets his head in the game._ Get in, get the job done, and get out."

"The man's gonna give himself a heart attack if he's not careful."

**_"All agents reporting to base. All agents reporting to base."_**

The intercom sounded causing Clint to sigh heavily. He cleared his throat, "I miss you, y'know.."

A wistful smile illuminated Natasha's face and a weary ache started bubbling inside her. _"I miss you too, but this will all be over soon, okay? Hang in there. If I can endure Tony Stark for as long as I did then you can certainly endure whatever that hammer has to bring."_

"Yeah, I suppose. It has me irked though, Nat. What is it here for?" He laughed uneasily and then his smile disappeared. "What the hell is it doing in the middle of the desert? And why now?"

_"I know you're less than excited about the whole thing but look on the bright side...you'll have me all to yourself once you've figure all of that out."_

"I'll hold you to that, Widow."

Natasha chuckled in response and Clint let his eyes slide close, wishing he could see her smile and laugh. _"See you soon, Hawk,"_ her voice bled deliciously through the line sending goosebumps up the archer's spine.

"See you soon," he responded before hanging up, stuffing the phone into his jacket pocket and making a beeline for the door.

* * *

_"I need eyes up high...with a gun."_

That was his cue.

Clint ventured towards the arsenal of arms and placed his hands on the rifle. He paused for a split second before grabbing the compound bow.

Bustling out of the trailer and into the sludge, he ran as fast as his feet could take him. Heavy droplets of rain spilled down from the blackened sky and approaching thunder began to roll above them. He clung on to the wires of the craned box and hopped in, rising towers above the base to get a better look. The bearded imposter was currently pummelling his way through the best of what SHIELD had to offer in muscle.

_"Barton, talk to me."_ Coulson's voice boomed in his ear.

Clint took aim. "Do you want me to slow him down, sir? Or are you sending in more guys for him to beat up?"

Coulson fought the urge to smile at the archer's snarky remark. Barton always did know how to amuse him at the best and worst of times. _"I'll let you know."_

Clint watched carefully and tried his best to hide the winces he made as the statuesque intruder launched into one of the heftiest agents SHIELD had on site, Buck Hale. The crane groaned as it waved in the air, accompanying the grunts the grudge match was eliciting.

Frankly, the whole thing was embarrassing. Hale was getting his ass handed to him. The intruder pinned him down with a drop kick to the chest and ensured he stayed down with a swift kick to the head for good measure. The guy had spirit, Clint would give him that.

"You better call it, Coulson, 'cause I'm starting to root for this guy."

When silence greeted him, Clint remained composed but ready. He watched the man rip away the translucent tarpaulin and approach the hammer—the hammer they were supposed to be 'protecting'.

"Last chance, sir," Clint ground out as he further retracted the bowstring, zoning in on his target's chest, taking aim once again.

_"Wait, I want to see this."_

The man groaned and wailed in the rain as if his life depended on lifting that hammer. But it was no use—it wouldn't budge. His feral roars cut through Clint like a hot knife as the rain pelted the man's devastated face.

_"All right, show's over. Ground units move in..."_ came Coulson's voice through the comm.

Clint lowered the bow, loosening his locked muscles as he did so. The man's head dropped to his chest in defeat. SHIELD guards approached carefully and apprehended him without resistance. He had given up all hope of salvation, of forgiveness, of redemption.

Clint coughed uncomfortably, clearing his suddenly tight throat, as he was lowered down to the muddy ground once again. He couldn't stop his mind flooding back to a scene some years ago when an unfortunate meeting with his brother ended in a similar way.

* * *

"Hey, how's Goldilocks doing?" Clint exited his room, towelling his freshly showered hair, when Coulson passed him on the corridor.

Coulson glanced up from his pager and set eyes on the archer. "He's not talking, which is making things a whole lot harder then they have to be."

"Coulson, maybe you should go easy on the guy."

"Excuse me?" Coulson narrowed his eyes at his agent, not quite believing what had come out of his mouth.

"Look, all I'm saying is he didn't kill anyone, he didn't blow up the base, and he didn't take your precious hammer," Clint argued, looping the towel behind his neck and holding it there with his hands.

"He put Hale in the hospital with a concussion and four broken ribs!"

"Might teach him to work on his hand-to-hand," Clint mumbled, not quite as low as he would have liked.

Hale was impatient, overly hot-headed, and was clearly lacking in the close-quarters combat area of expertise. Maybe Goldilock's impromptu sparring session would teach him a few lessons.

"Barton, get back to your post before I make you do Hale's paperwork as well as your own this weekend."

"All right, I'm going...I'm going," Clint began, turning his back on Coulson in an effort to avoid the verbal threat. "When's the last time you got a good night's sleep, huh?" he chimed playfully as he continued his trek, rubbing the back of his damp head with the towel.

"My sleeping regime is none of your concern," Coulson threw over his shoulder as he made his way back to the interrogation holding room.

"Goodbye," the bearded man muttered just as Coulson stepped back into the room, his face moist with newly shed tears.

"Goodbye? I just got back."

* * *

Clint made his way back to his room with a cup of coffee in his grip and the towel slung over one shoulder.

An intruder, invisible to mortal eyes, had his own eyes trained on the archer as he returned to his quarters. He had overheard his conversation with the man they call Coulson. The archer had vouched for Thor and had expressed concern for his superior underneath all the banter. He had an aura of determination, honesty, and discipline about him. He followed his gut instinct. The archer had heart, the intruder deduced with a devious smile.

* * *

End of Chapter 4


	5. Chapter 5

_Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters._

Thanks for your alerts and favourites and wonderful reviews! So it's reunion time for the two master assassins. Hope you enjoy it :)

* * *

Coulson made his way into Clint's room and tapped on the steel bar of the top bunk. "Director Fury has requested your presence back at HQ."

"Finally," Clint breathed as he rose into a seated position on the bed. He stretched his neck from side to side in an effort to loosen the stiffness in his muscles.

"You were expecting the transfer?"

"I asked for it."

Coulson frowned and blinked. "Since when did Fury start abiding by your orders?" He folded his arms across his chest and tried his best to keep his simmering temper under control.

The usually unflappable agent was already under enough stress with the appearance of a certain 'Donald Blake' character, and now he was facing the loss of one of his best agents.

"I've got a date." Clint winked and a devilish smirk lit up his face. He jumped down from the bunk, landing with two feet flat on the floor, and swooped underneath the bunk to grip his bow.

"A _date_?" Coulson asked with surprised eyes. "You just came off the injury list! You're not in the position to be making requests for extra-curricular activities."

Clint responded simply with a shrug of his shoulders. He knew well that Natasha had worked her magic and convinced the Director to let him return to New York. How she pulled that off, he would never know.

"Wait a minute, you have been itching to get an assignment on your hands for weeks, and now that you have one, you're itching to go again? 'Cause you've got a _date_?"

Clint thinned his lips in thought but remained silent. He broke eye contact with the older agent, grabbed his duffel and began to pack away the rest of his clothes. Coulson watched Clint carefully through narrowed eyes. He opened his mouth to speak again but Clint bet him to it.

"Listen, I was stuck on that injury list for nearly two months and the minute I get cleared for duty I get handed this lackluster assignment. I'm sick of waiting around, aiming at guys who chance their arm at lifting that hammer."

"You're a marksman, Clint. That's your job! You watch, wait, shoot and shut up!"

It was ironic really, Coulson thought. It was seldom that Clint did any of those things he listed.

"Coulson," Clint glared and swallowed thickly before he began, "I want some adrenaline for a change. I want to be aiming at guys who deserve to be aimed at, not at some hooligans who happen to stumble upon that hammer and try to find out the amount of testosterone they possess. I want to be out in the field again. I want to be back with—"

"You want to be with Romanoff again, don't you?" Coulson finished the sentence that Clint knew he couldn't.

Clint recognised that he was treading on some dangerous territory here. Having relationships with co-workers was a no-go area, incessantly reiterated in the holy grail of SHIELD guidelines and protocols.

Nope. Nada. Bad idea. Compromised feelings-yada yada yada. He had heard it all before.

"You don't think I see it, Clint?" Coulson continued when Clint didn't respond right away. "The way you look at her. The way she looks at you—pardon the clíche." The archer lowered his eyes to the floor but his stance and shoulders remained square. "For two people whose jobs revolve around being subtle," Coulson added, shaking his head, "you guys really take the cake."

Clint shot Coulson a glare and he clenched his jaw. "I don't know what you're talking about, sir." His voice remained unwavering but the flicker in his eyes revealed his lies.

"Of course you don't," Coulson replied with a subtle nod, sending the archer a knowing glint with his eyes.

Clint and Natasha were adults and Coulson knew that they were both professional enough to know when to leave their relationship out of the job. He let out a sigh, closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose. He could feel a headache starting to brew. "Just—" he started, sighing heavily, "just keep it professional, okay?"

Clint nodded silently in response, recognising that the older agent meant well. He knew he could trust Coulson to keep it to himself until they were ready to let others know. A moment lingered between them, dispelling any heat that had arisen during their exchange.

Clint licked his lips. "I have to go." He tightened his grip around the bow, side-stepping the older agent, and ventured towards the door. "Let me know how you get on with 'Donald'," he added before dashing down the corridor to make his escape.

Coulson turned to see his agent off. "Hey, you better enjoy these next few days, Barton, 'cause I'm gonna make sure Fury gives you one hell of an assignment once you get back."

"Yeah, yeah.." the archer replied nonchalantly as he continued his trek.

* * *

_New York_

* * *

Clint approached her bedroom door and noted the peek of light that escaped, drawing a thin streak across the floor. He spied her, through the gap, cleaning her deadly collection of weapons, facing away from him. The array of knives and guns were laid out in a strategic pattern on the bed, awaiting to be cleaned by her nimble fingers. She was barefoot, wearing her faded jeans and a jade green vest top.

Clint inched the door open a little more and moved silently towards her, barely letting his feet pad the floor. He knew from the get-go it had been a futile move, already knowing that her keen ears would sense every movement. She was always ready for any fleeting attack that might befall her, always ready to pounce like the spider she was named after. For as long as he'd known her she'd always been like that. Anyone who tried to sneak up on Natasha was as good as dead.

Natasha's ears pricked in anticipation as soon as she felt his presence outside the room. Over the years, she had become attuned to his footsteps, his movements, his breathing rhythm, his distinctive scent. But she remained still and continued her inspection of her weapon.

"Hey handsome.." she whispered as soon as she felt his breath tickle the back of her neck.

Clint hugged her back, snaking his arms around her, encapsulating her into his embrace. He pushed past her long curls and placed his head in the crook of her neck. "Hey," he whispered softly into her ear.

"Flight okay?" She turned her head to the side slightly and sagged into his chest. She dropped the gun on the bed.

"Fine." He nuzzled into her neck and enveloped himself in her scent, inhaling sweetly.

Natasha allowed her eyes to close in contentment. It felt so good to have him home. She let her head drop back when he started nipping at her neck with his lips. She gnawed her at lip absently when he hit the ticklish spot just behind her ear. "New Mexico interesting?" she rasped, teasing and distracting him with her words.

Clint chuckled into her neck. "Nat, the last thing I wanna do right now is talk about New Mexico."

"Well, what do you suggest we do then?" she teased once more, arching an eyebrow suggestively.

"I want you," he kissed her neck, "and I," he grinned, kissing her again, "to continue what we started two months ago in that safe house."

Natasha chuckled, "I'm not a very patient woman, Barton, so you better get started."

Clint spun her around so that their bodies meshed perfectly against one another. He placed his hands on her neck and pressed his lips to hers with hungry force. Natasha instantly melted into his embrace, moving her hands so that they rested against his back, and pulled him more bodily towards her. Their kisses deepened and Clint responded with vigour, moving his hands to settle on her waist once again. He let out a breathy chuckle as he lifted her up against him, surprised at how delicate she felt in his grip.

Natasha allowed a deep hum to escape her lips as she felt herself being lifted by his strong, athletic arms. She automatically wrapped her legs around his waist in response, holding herself securely against his solid frame. Lazily, she allowed her hands to wander to the nape of his neck and began dragging them through his soft hair, massaging the back of his scalp lightly.

Clint walked them over to the bed, pushing her weapons away as he dropped down her with ease, her hair bouncing lightly as she landed on the sheets. Her curls spread themselves out in a halo around her head, highlighting her pale skin in contrast to the blazing red.

Natasha couldn't suppress the giggle that came out of her when Clint pulled away from her lips and smiled thoughtfully at her. "What?" she asked with a breathy laugh, shifting so that she was propping herself up on her elbows.

"Nothing.." he shook his head slightly as if trying to dispel distracting thoughts that had accumulated in his mind. "I just love it when you laugh...I missed that. I missed hearing you laugh."

Her heart fluttered in her chest as he maintained his piercing gaze, watching her like the hawk he had long been associated with. She allowed her lips to curl into a seductive smile in return. Clint flashed another white smile before leaning down to capture her lips again. Her arms pulled him towards her once more, her bruising grip snaking under his t-shirt, tightening around his muscled frame.

* * *

End of Chapter 5


	6. Chapter 6

_Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters._

Hey guys, sorry for the delay! Between exams, Christmas, and the New Year, I just didn't have the time to upload any new chapters! But enjoy this one for the time being and let me know what you think!

* * *

Clint awakened with a yawn, his bare chest inflating and deflating slightly with the movement. His bleary eyes took in the amber sunlight peaking in through the curtains, greeting them with the inviting rays of early morning. He rubbed a hand over one eye, blinking away the remnants of the warm haze that accompanied deep sleep. He was on his back, his head cushioned by a pillow that smelled distinctly of his partner.

_Natasha._

His eyes shifted down to find her arm draped over his abdomen, her fingers curled loosely around his left side, barely brushing the pink scar that had remained of their night in Istanbul. She was on her belly with her face turned towards him, snuggled into his right side.

The blanket, that was supposed to be covering both of them, was hanging low, his left hip peeking out from underneath the sheets. He stopped himself pulling the covers back, knowing that it would wake her if he attempted to move.

He let his eyes roam over her bare shoulders and back, taking in the assortment of scars that dotted her pale skin. It was no surprise to him, however, as he had already become acquainted with her scars during a mission in Budapest, Hungary.

Some scars she had sustained during their partnership, others from her time in the Red Room.

He knew all too well that every scar had a story to tell, a lesson to be learned. They stand as an unsettling reminder that they are not invincible beings, not immune to bullets, poisons or any weapons that are so often inflicted upon them. Each close-call or life threatening wound is a stark warning that in their job, death is always lurking around the corner, ready to claim them. It had become second nature to them by now.

Leaning over, he brushed his lips against each scar gently. She began to stir in response, his feather-light caresses awakening her senses, sending goosebumps down her back. She cracked one eye open and sighed contentedly, her lips curving into a sleepy smile.

Clint turned onto his side, propping his head up with an elbow. "Morning," he whispered, his croaky voice rumbling deep in his throat.

"Morning," she answered with a muffled yawn. "Sleep well?"

"Yeah, better than I have in a while actually. I could get used to this," he waved a hand, gesturing to the bed beneath them. He shifted, reaching a hand behind to press against the dull ache in his back that had remained over his nights spent in New Mexico.

"My bed the only reason you slept well?" she asked, pressing a hand against his arm, coaxing him to roll over.

Clint threw a puzzled look out of the corner of his eye, wondering what she was doing. He obliged and rolled over anyway. "No, there are plenty of reasons why I slept well last night."

"Really?" Once she had him flat on his belly, she straddled his lower back and started kneading the taut muscles of his shoulders. Leaning down, she whispered into his ear, "Do tell."

"All that travelling sure takes a lot out of a guy."

That earned him a sharp tap on the back of his head and Clint couldn't stop himself letting out a soft chuckle.

She shimmied her hands over his skin slowly, her fingers finding his own array of scars that marred his skin. He could feel her digits trace them, her delicate fingers running over each one, slowly and precisely. With his back exposed to her touch and the cool air of the room, his skin began quiver involuntarily under her hands.

She felt him shiver beneath her and she stilled. "This okay?" she asked, continuing to knead his back with firm circular movements.

He let out an appreciative groan. "More than okay, Nat." He settled his head further into the pillow, graciously allowing her to continue the massage.

When she finished up, she clambered off him, unhooked her dressing gown from the door, and wrapped herself in the silky material. Lazily, Clint flipped over and manoeuvred himself into a seated position. He kept his gaze on her as she made her way around the room, picking up discarded clothes from the floor.

Feeling his eyes on her, she turned, her face puzzled. "What?"

Clint looked at her as though he had been caught red-handed. Even with her bed-fresh curls falling loosely over her shoulders and a simple robe around her, Natasha Romanoff was capable of making his jaw drop and his stomach quiver in delight.

He scrubbed a hand down his blushing face, closed his mouth, and shook his head. "Nothing."

Her eyes scanned him carefully and she noted the light stubble that was shading the lower half of his face. She extended a hand towards him and curled her finger coaxingly. "C'mon, Hawkeye, time for a wash. You're stinking up my place with that stench of yours."

"Stench?" He almost sounded insulted. "I don't remember you complaining of my 'stench' last night?" He threw her a waggling eyebrow and a wolfish grin.

"Get your bag. A shower and a shave are in order. It's starting to look like you're trying to emulate your favourite Iron-clad superhero."

"Ha, don't make me laugh," he scoffed as he pulled back the covers and made his way out of the bed. He picked up a towel and slung it over his shoulder.

Before reaching the bathroom, he spun around on his heel and threw her a suggestive expression. "Actually, now that you mention it, you could use a bit of a freshen up too."

She countered his cheeky grin with an arched eyebrow and an unimpressed look. "Get your ass moving, Barton, before I move it for you."

Defeated, he turned back around. "I'm going, I'm going, but don't say I didn't warn you," he teased melodically before closing the door.

Almost immediately, the rush of water became audible to Natasha's ears. She soon began to hear his melodic whistling filtering through the door. Her eyes landed on the door and she bit the inside of her gum absently for a moment before following him inside.

* * *

_SHIELD HQ, 3 weeks later_

* * *

"Good to see you back, Coulson." Clint swivelled around in his chair to greet the older agent as he entered the briefing room. His eyes were fixed on an arrowhead in his grip.

Coulson watched the young agent in amusement as he found his seat. "Thanks."

"After the whole Thor dealio, I'm surprised they didn't give you the rest of the year off." He continued to fiddle with the arrowhead, twisting it meticulously.

"Well things to do, people to see, Barton," the older agent responded nonchalantly, without looking up from his files.

The archer hummed in agreement. It was seldom that Coulson took time off work. Quality time, downtime, any kind of time. It was clear from the very moment Clint was recruited by SHIELD that the man put his life and soul into his job.

"Did you enjoy your lengthy vacation?" Coulson asked with a smile as he continued reading the papers in front of him.

"Lengthy?" Clint scoffed. "It was two weeks."

Coulson looked up and paused, considering his comment.

Clint met Coulson's gaze and he continued his ramblings. "I ran a few errands, had a few beers, you know the drill," he listed with a shrug of his shoulders. "Did you enjoy Portla—uh, I mean your time off, sir?"

Coulson glared at Clint, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully. They rested on him for a long moment before flitting down to his files once again. "It was sufficient."

Clint cocked his head to the side, studying the older agent, awestruck that he hadn't admonished him for his outright cheekiness. After the whole New Mexico mess, maybe the guy had gone soft. Maybe the rumours about the agent's recent downtime were true—Coulson had started romancing a musician from Portland.

Coulson shook his wrist to get a look at his watch. "Romanoff on her way?"

"Yeah, she's coming. Don't get your tie in a knot."

"When's the last time you got a good nights sleep, huh?" Coulson quipped in response, obviously indicating to Clint's lack of sleep whilst in the company of a certain assassin.

Clint's mind flickered back to the conversation they shared after Thor's interrogation.

_"When's the last time you got a good night's sleep, huh?"_

_"My sleeping regime is none of your concern, Barton."_

He set the arrow on the table and echoed Coulson's words with a smirk. "My sleeping regime is none of your concern, Coulson."

"It is when you're out in the field with Agent Romanoff accompanying you. I need not remind you that it's expected that the two of you get the sufficient amount."

Clint resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Can we stow the 'birds and the bees' lecture for another day and just get on with that assignment?"

"Now that I've got your attention, can we focus?"

The door opened suddenly, breaking the tension, and Natasha entered. "Apologies, sir."

"Agent Romanoff," Coulson greeted with a sharp nod. "We ready to begin?"

"Yes, sir."

"Fire ahead." Clint nodded once Natasha was settled in her seat.

"Abidjan, Ivory Coast. A shit-storm has been brewing in the city for the past few weeks and we've been monitoring the movements of a local rebel group. Usual activities include gun-running, drug trafficking. This morning it's been confirmed that the group have been planning a city-wide riot in an attempt to overthrow the local government. We need the both of you to get in there and prevent any further escalation of the situation."

Natasha and Clint looked at each other, their faces determined, their heads in the game.

"Here are your files." Coulson slid the files towards the two agents. "Strike Team: Delta out in full force. Any questions?"

Both agents shook their heads.

"All right then. Get packed. Wheels up in 20 minutes."

* * *

End of Chapter 6

More soon :)


	7. Chapter 7

_Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters._

Thanks for the reviews, follows and favourites :)

Let's keep going with this thing..

* * *

_Quinjet_

* * *

With his legs stretched out across the bench, Clint snored gladly to himself, catching some shut eye before they landed in the troubled city of Abidjan. Natasha, seated opposite, was also stretched out with her head pillowed by a duffel bag. Unlike Clint, she was awake and reading a book.

Coulson was sitting in one of the seats at Clint's feet, carefully studying his files. After a moment, his eyes flickered up to rest on Natasha and he began, lowering his voice enough to ensure the conversation would only be shared between him and the agent across from him.

"You lied to me."

She tore her eyes from the book. "I'm sorry?"

"After Clint had that surgery on his shoulder, you told me you didn't have feelings for him."

She rose into a seated position and placed the book face down on her lap. "With all due respect, sir, I didn't lie to you. You asked me was I compromised. I said no. After Madrid, my feelings for him were inappropriate but I refused let anything happen between us at the time. I was not a compromised agent."

Coulson's eyebrows rose in curiosity. "At the time?"

"Yes, sir."

"And what about now?"

"I'm neither compromised nor distracted by our relationship. If anything, it has made us stronger as a team."

"Stronger?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "No more tension. No more childish crap. We've got our heads in the game. We're on the same level, finally, for the first time in a long time."

He sat back in the chair, simmering over her words. "I see."

After a couple of seconds, he sat forward again, resting his elbows on his knees. "I want you to know that I trust the both of you to be professional and to put the job at hand before your relationship. You understand that, don't you?"

"I understand, sir," she answered sincerely with a nod.

"Good," he nodded back. "Now get some sleep before we land. You two have got a busy schedule ahead of ye."

"Yes, sir."

Natasha lowered the book to the floor, turned onto her side, and settled her head further into the duffel bag. Before closing her eyes, she caught Coulson's line of vision once again. "Coulson?"

"Hmm?"

"Thanks for trusting us, and thank you for keeping it to yourself."

A faint smile grew upon his face and he nodded again. "Get some sleep, Agent Romanoff."

* * *

_"Focus, Natalia."_

_Natasha kept her eyes trained on the wall opposite, her eyes alight with ferocity and determination. She breathed out a hitched breath but refused to let out the whimper that was begging for release. Weakness was not an option.__ She had to be strong. She had to prove that she able, ready._

_"Focus."__ The voice hissed unflinchingly, severing what little was left of Natasha's youthful soul. _

_She was on her knees, in the middle of the concrete floor, __her palms spread either side__. The middle__-__aged __woman, __positioned __behind her__, was __gripping __the __ends of her hair, pulling forcefully backwards towards her own chest._

_Natasha could feel wetness__ starting __to emerge__ from the corners of her eyes and she blinked forcefully to clear her clouding vision. The pain was__ spreading like a corrosive agent through her veins, burning and sizzling through flesh, __building to an unbearable climax. She was certain __her hair was going to rip __from__ her scalp._

_Tears began tr__ailing__ down her cheeks as the woman continued pulling and gripping her flaming curls, her scalp now __a crimson wreck__ from the training __session__. She couldn't stop herself from eliciting __the__ weak __sob that bubbled up from her throat__._

_The harsh voice penetrated the air again, "Natalia, focus!"_

She bolted up in the bed, her chest heaving with panicked bursts, trying desperately to suck in precious oxygen. Her eyes darted around the room, taking in the surroundings blackened by the night sky. She clasped a hand over her mouth in a futile effort to calm herself, her damp palm meeting her sweat slicked face. The sticky, humid air suffocated her every thought, making her already pounding heart accelerate further.

She forced herself to freeze, allowing her vision to hover for a moment. Deep breathing became audible to her right, coming from the body that was stretched out beside her. Clint was facing away from her, one arm curled around the pillow his head was buried in. She hadn't woken him.

She let her hand drop and scanned her eyes around the room again, pulling herself together as best she could. She slid off the bed and tip-toed steadily towards the bathroom, flicked on the light, and closed the door behind her.

She twisted the tap, the squeaking noise breaking the eerie silence encapsulating the room. Water soon filled the sink bowl and she cupped two handfuls and splashed it against her face. A shuddering breath escaped her lips as the coolness soothed her panicked state. She reached for the cupboard above the sink and began searching, pushing against various pill containers, cotton wool buds, gauze pads and bandage rolls. She rummaged around until she felt the cool edge and hollow hoops.

Bingo.

"Natasha?"

She spun around, her wild eyes flying to his face, and wielded the only thing that she had in her grip.

She hadn't heard him opening the door. She hadn't sensed him approaching.

Wearing an old grey t-shirt and a pair of navy boxers, Clint was wiping a hand over a confused and sleepy face. Upon taking in her stance, he blinked, his sleepiness abruptly wearing off. "Whoa, hey, it's me!" He raised both hands in submission and froze. Observing her shaky grip and weary gaze, he figured she had just woken up from some sort of nightmare. He reduced the volume of his voice to almost a whisper. "Natasha, it's Clint."

She blinked a couple of times, taking in his calm and soothing tone, and then lowered the scissors encased in her grip. "Clint.."

"What are you doing?"

"I-" she began, doing her best to think of a good lie to appease him. "I was just-"

"Nightmare?"

She cast her eyes down to her bare feet and swallowed, "Yeah."

She knew she couldn't lie to him. If she did, he wouldn't believe her anyway.

"Well let's keep the sharp objects out of the conversation, shall we?" He slowly approached and went to take the scissors out of her hand.

"No, wait-" She pulled away and frowned.

"Nat, what are you-"

"I want to cut it."

He shook his head, confused. "Cut what?"

"My hair. I need to cut it."

Clint regarded her with another contorted expression, puzzled by this sudden decision.

"Stop looking at me like I've two heads, Barton," she managed under her breath, dragging her eyes away from him, half-ashamed of herself. She hated being vulnerable in front of him. The last thing she needed from him right now was his pity.

His shoulders dropped and he let out a breath. "Why do you need to cut your hair?"

"It's too long. I can't move without it in my face all the time."

"And you decide this at quarter to four in the morning?"

"Clint, I just-" she let out a heavy sigh. "Just let me do this, okay?"

"All right. I 'aint stopping you. Do what you want." He backed away and folded his arms across his chest.

She slowly turned around to face the mirror and began gathering her hair together in a loose pony-tail. Fumbling uncharacteristically, her hands shook slightly as she gripped the scissors, fitting her thumb and index finger into the hoops.

"Do you need some-"

"Can it, Barton."

He threw her a faint smirk and a sleepy yawn.

Her grip grew white-knuckled as her hand moved forward to slice but she hesitated before cutting. A painfully forced cough came from behind her. She stopped and glared at him in the mirror. He was watching her carefully, his head cocked to the side, leaning against the frame of the door. She rolled her eyes and then focused once again on the strands of her hair.

_Just a few more inches, __Natasha. You can do this. It's just some fucking hair._

Before she mustered up the strength his voice interrupted again.

"Okay, you're giving me hives watching you do that."

"I don't remember anyone asking you to watch?"

"Give me the scissors, Nat."

"I can do this by myself."

"Give me the scissors.."

"Clint-"

"Just trust me, okay?" He took the scissors out of her hand, placed them on the closed toilet seat, and moved towards the bath. He twisted the tap and water began streaming out, spraying out a rushed stream of water. Placing a hand in the water, he tested the temperature, nodded after a moment, and gestured towards her.

"C'mere."

She let out an exasperated sigh but obliged, kneeled beside him and bowed her head over the bath. A calloused hand sifted through her hair, tousling through her scalp as he situated the nozzle over her crown.

The careful movements of his hand and the tepid spray of the water acted as a cool balm over the raw welts that haunted her scalp. She closed her eyes and sank into his touch, allowing him to massage his way through her hair. She could feel every ounce of the tension inside her dissipate immediately and for those few minutes, he had helped her forget the nightmarish memories of the Red Room, without him even realising it.

They remained silent throughout and once he had finished rinsing her hair, she threw him a gracious smile. A smile that echoed the words _"Thank you"._

She grabbed a nearby towel, placed it around her shoulders, and settled herself up on the closed toilet seat. He had retrieved the scissors and then settled himself beside her. He proceeded to cut her hair with precision and swiftness. Their eyes met from time to time and they both offered each other a light-hearted smile. A comforting gesture, an indication of mutual understanding, a sign of love for one another.

She found herself drifting off again, lack of sleep and the rhythmic accents of the scissors causing her to switch off for a brief moment. His agile fingers worked through the kinks in her hair, following the damp waves as he cut each lock away.

"That okay?"

His words brought her out of her impromptu daydream. She stood up from the toilet seat and looked in the mirror. Her hair was now half-dry and barely touching her shoulders.

"Perfect," she responded simply. "It's perfect." She sifted through to the ends of her hair and felt a weight leave her shoulders.

Clint gathered the rest of her discarded hair and deposited it into the nearby bin. He arched an eyebrow at her before exiting the bathroom. "You coming back to bed?"

"Yeah, I'll be right there." She slid the towel off her shoulders and began rubbing vigorously through her scalp, driving away the invasive memories of the Red Room, the horrors of many a nightmare she too often had to endure.

* * *

End of Chapter 7


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